Bad Days
by philomenia
Summary: A visit to Mycroft's gives John a little insight into the Holmes brothers' fractured relationship. A drabble that got out of hand.


Bad Days

John sighed. It was going to be another one of those days.

John regarded his flatmate from the vantage point of the sofa, carefully guarding his mug of tea from Sherlock's wild pacing. He'd been at this since dawn, when he'd roused John from the depths of sleep with the screeching of violin strings. Since then he had been playing tunelessly, periodically pausing to dive into piles of books, apply nicotine patches, open and close the windows, dial a number on his phone and let it ring out, or throw a multitude of items around the flat. All because he didn't have a case. Another one of his bad days.

John blinked against his tiredness, wishing he had made coffee instead. Sherlock was currently upsetting the contents of the table, his recent case notes flying everywhere, papering the carpet. Quite without warning, he stopped, reached into his pocket, withdrew his phone and dialled a number. It rang out again. Sherlock swore and threw the phone at the sofa. It narrowly missed John's elbow and bounced harmlessly against the Union Jack cushion.

"Sherlock." John sighed, "Will you just sit down? I'm sure another case will come along soon."

"This isn't about a case!" Sherlock snarled, but threw himself into his armchair as per John's instructions nevertheless.

"Then you should probably stop calling Lestrade. He'll call if he has anything for you. I bet you're annoying him."

"Not phoning Lestrade." Sherlock mumbled, staring out of the window, fingers dancing impatiently over the arm of the chair.

"Oh, um…" Confusion crossed John's features. He was used to Sherlock glibly dismissing his every assumption, but he had seen this current pattern of behaviour many times before. Just the week before last, come to think of it, in between the case involving the two amputated ears mailed to a bedsit in Croydon and that case with the bizarre burglary from a doctor's surgery, supposedly perpetrated by a Russian oligarch. He frowned, "What is this about then?"

"He's not answering his phone. He always answers his phone."

"Who?"

By way of reply, Sherlock hauled himself from the chair and snatched up his violin. The subsequent caterwauling cut short any further questions John might have asked. He rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen to make that cup of coffee.

Twenty minutes later, after Sherlock had dislodged almost everything from the bookshelf and John was thinking up several creative ways to murder his friend, the phone rang. John's breath caught in his throat. Sherlock became eerily still, staring at John. In the blink of an eye, he'd ripped the phone from his pocket and was staring at the glowing screen. A strange look passed over his features.

"Called you back, has he?" John smirked.

"No." Sherlock frowned slightly, and, after a moment of hesitation, answered. "Yes? What is it?...Oh…No, no…Of course…Yes, that's fine."

"That's all?" John felt a stab of disappointment as Sherlock returned the phone to his pocket. He had started to think that something exciting was about to happen.

"Mmm? Oh, yes. I, um…I need to go pay my brother a visit."

Sherlock was already pulling on his coat. John found it hard to mask his surprise. He had never known Sherlock so readily visit Mycroft. Come to think of it, John had never known the younger Holmes willingly go to see his brother at all. As if reading his mind, Sherlock eyed him wearily.

"Do you want to come with me? Nothing to do here."

"Except tidy up this mess you've made." John didn't know why he was even pretending to protest; he was already putting his shoes on. Clearly something was going on, and he'd be damned if he was going to miss the fun. Sherlock smiled, pulling John's coat off the hat stand and handing it to him.

Moments later they were in a cab.

Truth be told, John had wanted to visit Mycroft's grand Richmond house ever since Sherlock told him that his brother had gigantic silver chess pieces littered about the place, with which to play out some Machiavellian fantasy game. He wasn't certain if Sherlock was joking or not. With Mycroft Holmes, he had quickly come to realise, almost anything was possible. He therefore experienced some disappointment when, instead of giving the address of the townhouse, Sherlock instead gave the cabbie an address in Pall Mall.

"He stays in a flat near his offices and his club during the working work." Sherlock said, reading the look on John's face, "Which, for Mycroft, is all week every week. He hardly uses his house. Maybe we'll break in some time when he's not expecting it." Sherlock smiled, "Have a look around."

"Sounds like fun." John returned the grin.

The cab pulled up next to an elegant building in an area of London John knew reasonably well; they were only a short walk from Whitehall. Of course Mycroft would keep homes in the most expensive areas of the city. He cultivated an aura of grandeur in everything he did, from his bespoke suits from Saville Row, to his travelling everywhere in a black Mercedes, to where he chose to live. Not for the first time, John wondered who Mycroft felt he needed to impress with all this. It was his brilliant mind that had made him the most indispensable man in the government, not his impeccable taste.

They stepped out of the cab and approached the grand front entrance to the building. Leaning against the door, Blackberry in hand, was Mycroft's beautiful, nameless assistant. She was looking slightly less immaculate than usual, her hair rumpled and her make-up hurried. Sherlock strode forward to approach her.

"Thank you for getting here so quickly." She said, not looking up from her phone.

"You should've called sooner." Sherlock replied, "Or did you think you could handle this yourself?"

If his remark had offended her she didn't show it beyond the lift of an eyebrow. Instead, she reached into her handbag and extracted a set of silver keys. Wordlessly, she handed them to Sherlock.

"I brought my lock picking kit." Sherlock sniffed, staring at the keys accusatorily.

Instead of replying, she jangled the keys in Sherlock's face. With a grunt he snatched them from her fingers. She gave him a brief smile, then, without so much as acknowledging John's presence, walked away. As John turned to watch her leave, one of Mycroft's black cars pulled up silently. It must have been circling, waiting for her. She got in and was gone.

They entered into the building's hallway, all gleaming wood and good taste – a world away from Mrs Hudson's floral wallpaper and wicker accessories. Sherlock led the way up the large staircase to the first floor flat. John assumed he would knock, but Sherlock just unlocked and opened the door.

Inside the flat was dark, too warm and airless. John's spine tingled with the sense that something must be badly wrong. Sherlock, somehow knowing his way around the flat in the dark, led them through another door, crossed the room and opened the heavy curtains.

Now the damask was cast aside, John could see he was stood in an impressive living room, decorated in a traditional way he would have imagined Mycroft would have chosen. There was a lot of mahogany wood, green art deco wallpaper, and bookshelves everywhere. One unexpected thing was the grand piano at the far end of the room, in the same dark wood as the rest of the furniture. John hadn't supposed the elder Holmes brother would have spared much thought for music. But then, John mused, there was Sherlock and his violin. John suspected the room was usually spotlessly tidy, but today it looked as though Sherlock had spent his morning there. There were books in piles all over the floor; some open, a few with pages torn out and illegible notes scribbled on them. The roll top desk had several of its drawers open, one wrenched out entirely and lying carelessly on the carpet, contents spilling everywhere. Four or five empty plates, still covered in crumbs, were stacked up on the mantelpiece. A crystal decanter had been drained of whatever brandy or whisky Mycroft had been saving and carelessly left on the floor, and two of the matching tumblers had been smashed. One of the glasses had evidently still contained some of the unknown amber alcohol, now little more than a brown stain on the carpet. John surveyed the scene of devastation with a growing sense of trepidation.

It was then John spotted another unexpected thing, miraculously spared from the surrounding destruction. It was the only picture frame in the room, sat at the centre of the table next to the green Chesterfield sofa. John picked it up to examine it. It contained a black-and-white photograph of two boys, one around ten, the other no more than three. The youngest was seated in the other's lap, with his hand curled defensively around the elder boy's wrist. A hardback book – _Treasure Island_ – was open between them; whoever had taken the picture was plainly intruding upon them. Neither was smiling. The elder of the two boys had a round face and neatly combed hair whereas the younger had a mass of wild, dark curls. But both had the same eyes, levelled at the camera lens with the same knowing gaze. No prizes for guessing who they were, John smirked to himself. Suddenly, Sherlock materialised behind him with a cough of disdain. He wrenched the frame from John's grasp, and placed it, face down, on the table.

Without a word, Sherlock spun round and stalked into an adjoining room. As ever, John followed. This room was darkened too, but was clearly the kitchen. As Sherlock rolled up the blinds, John was amused to see that the biscuit barrel on the counter top had a padlock on it. Other than that, the kitchen seemed rarely used, devoid of personal items and was pristine, apart from the broken china cup and wet puddle of tea on the stone-tiled floor.

"Sherlock, what's happened here?" John said in hushed tones, "Has Mycroft been kidnapped?"

Sherlock, who was filling the kettle with water from the tap, didn't respond for a moment. He replaced the kettle and switched it on.

"Mmm…wait, kidnapped?" Sherlock stared at him incredulously, "Don't be ridiculous John. I doubt Mycroft's had more than three serious attempts on his life. Which, considering his line of work, is an astonishingly low number. No, John. You know what's happened here."

Without pausing to explain, even though John's mouth was half-open, ready for form the next question, Sherlock strode off towards another room. Logically, most likely to be a bedroom, John thought as he followed behind his friend once again. Sherlock grasped the doorknob and pushed, but the door didn't budge. Locked.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted, knocking forcefully on the door, "Open up. It's time for you to stop being interesting and get back to your usual dull existence. Your assistant said it's been two days!"

"Wait, Mycroft's here?" John had the sneaking feeling he was missing something obvious. Which was how he usually felt whilst around the Holmes brothers, so he shouldn't have been surprised.

"Of course he's here. Where else would he be?" Sherlock replied, looking at John like he'd gone quite mad, before he resumed banging on the door. "Mycroft! Open this door right now!"

A muffled noise of dissent emanated from the room. It sounded a bit like Mycroft, John supposed, only…_petulant_.

"Mycroft! Mycroft, now. Or I'm going to kick the door in." Sherlock paused before adding, in a low, threatening tone, "You know I'll do it."

That seemed to do the trick. After a moment, they heard the lock open with a muted click. Sherlock pushed opened the door slowly. Still half-expecting there to be a team of killer assassins with tear gas holding Mycroft hostage, John held his breath.

But behind the door was just another darkened room.

The bedroom was reasonably neat, considering the wreckage in the living room, with only the empty, unmade bed betraying the room's owner's natural primness. John gave a quick glance around the room as Sherlock opened the curtains. The daylight revealed a rather dishevelled Mycroft, awkwardly folded into an armchair in the corner of the room. He was wearing navy cotton pyjamas which, to John, made him look younger, smaller. Less powerful. Less dangerous. He looked sleepless, his deep-set eyes looking frenzied instead of shrewd. He was chewing at his manicured nails, glowering at Sherlock as the younger man stalked about the room. As he paced, he plucked Mycroft's mobile phone from the nightstand.

"Honestly Mycroft, forty-one missed calls. And only seventeen are from me. This really has to stop now. You know I find you much more fun when you're like this, but when you're not answering your phone people call _me_."

The huddled mass in the chair just snorted derisively. Sherlock turned, retrieved a chair from the dressing table and sat down opposite his elder brother to meet his gaze.

"John," he said without turning around, "Would you go make some tea? The kettle should have boiled now. I'm sure you can find some cups that aren't broken in the cupboard above the toaster."

"Oh, um, right." John replied, turning and walking back towards the kitchen, feeling slightly dazed.

As Sherlock had said, there were painted china cups and, indeed, a teapot, uncracked and unspoiled, in the cupboard. As the tea brewed, John mulled over his day so far. So, it had been Mycroft that Sherlock had been calling all morning. Mycroft's assistant had been the one to call him, which must mean that Mycroft hadn't gone to the office. Whatever had been going on here, and had got Mycroft looking like that, had got Sherlock concerned enough to rush over here. And the easy manner in which Sherlock piloted himself around the dark flat, and knowledge about the location of the teacups, suggested he had been here a fair few times before.

John loaded up a tray and walked back to the bedroom. The brothers were still sat face to face. Mycroft had smoothed down his hair and unfurled from the chair, bare feet now square on the floor. A challenge. Sherlock had leaned forward and tented his fingers in his customary manner. They were silent, but that familiar glint in their eyes, the same flicker in their eyelids, told John that they were deciphering one another. Although John had never seen them like this before, he supposed that they must do that often – it made sense really, what was the use in their speaking to each other if they could just observe all the necessary facts? John shook his head; he was thinking more like Sherlock every day. He placed the tray down on the nearest clear surface, poured out three cups of tea, added sugar to Sherlock's, and handed the cups to the brothers. Sherlock accepted silently, without averting his gaze, continuing to scrutinise his brother. When Mycroft didn't immediately reach out for his cup, Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow. A few tense seconds slipped by, before Mycroft grudgingly reached out with nimble fingers and lifted the teacup from John's hand.

"I, um…I'll just take my tea in the other room then." John said, suddenly uncomfortable.

"If you would," Sherlock replied, voice distant, "I'll be through in a little while. If you could straighten things up in there too, that would be good."

John and his teacup retreated to the disordered living room. He took a seat on the green leather sofa and took a big gulp. It didn't have the restorative effect he had been hoping it might. He placed his cup on the nearby table and noticing the picture frame, still face down, he picked it up to gaze at the photograph. In all the time he had lived with Sherlock, he realised he had never really learnt much about his friend's childhood or his complicated relationship with his brother. Sherlock just never talked about it and John had never thought to ask Mycroft; in any case, their rivalry was plain to see. He simply hadn't questioned it. But this photograph hadn't been staged; the photographer, probably their 'Mummy', had happened upon the boys like this. Plainly they had been close once. And that Mycroft kept the photograph framed in his living room was very telling. The more John thought about it the more he realised that he had no idea what this feud between brothers was about. They never spoke about it, choosing instead to make silent war. But it wasn't like they were completely estranged, they still saw one another quite often; Mycroft turning up at 221b with a case file and a sneer was a bi-monthly event, and Sherlock had been known to call his brother whenever he wanted something. And then there were the events of today to consider. John put the photo back on display, the way Mycroft had left it before Sherlock had arrived. Clearly whatever bad blood there was between them couldn't be as bad as all that. He drained his teacup and then set to work tidying the room, scooping armfuls of books back on to their shelves, and rearranging items on the mantelpiece, no doubt in the same way he would be expected to do when he and Sherlock returned home to the chaos they had left behind.

After finishing, the room looking neat and orderly, he flopped back on to the sofa, exhausted. The next thing he knew, it was dark outside and he was being shaken awake. The lamps had been switched on suffusing the room in an orange glow. Sherlock was sat next to him, hand on his shoulder, once again rousing him from sleep.

"It's late." John mumbled, eyes bleary.

"It's only nine o'clock." Sherlock said, simply, "Mycroft's asleep. I want you to stay here until morning."

"Sure, that's fine." John said, realising only after he'd spoken that it hadn't been a question, "Where are you going?"

"Just to run an errand. Shouldn't take more than an hour or two. There's a guest room down the hall if you want to go back to sleep." Sherlock moved to leave, but John put a hand out to stop him.

"Wait, Sherlock. You're going to have to explain this to me. What has been going on today?"

"I rather thought you would know John – "

"Don't give me that. You're always doing that! Assuming. For once, just explain." John gritted out.

"I only meant that you recognise the symptoms so well in me. I thought that you would see…" Sherlock furrowed his brow, staring at him. The light of understanding finally dawned on Johns face.

"Oh…Oh, I see. I didn't know. Mycroft has his bad days too…"

"Precisely. Mycroft's a busy man, so it doesn't happen often, but I'm not the only one who gets bored. As much as it pains me to admit it, my brother is just like me. Or, rather, I'm like him."

"So, if Mycroft's bored, does that mean the country is safe? No wars, terrorists, bombings?" John smirked, "Not even a fiscal crisis?"

"Um, yeah." Sherlock laughed, "The country is at peace. He has literally nothing to do."

"Funny." John smiled, and then turned to look at his friend, "You were worried about him. And plainly you've done this for him before. What is it with you two? You're always so aloof, then this…"

"He's my brother." Sherlock shrugged, averting his gaze, "You go over to your sister's when she had too much to drink. It's just what people do."

"But you're not people. And when Harry's not answering her phone, I don't call another seventeen times and trash the flat in frustration. What is it –"

"He's my brother." Sherlock said again, as if that explained everything. John continued to stare at him until he spoke again. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces.

"Sherlo-"

"I _hate_ him. I used to admire him so much, he was just like me. He would do things just because they were exciting. He was so full of fire. When we were young I thought the two of us would burn the world to the ground. Then things changed. He grew up. He just became so reserved and proper and dull. He suddenly stopped being who he really is and started pretending. And I hate him for it. Every day I hate him more; every time I see him, with his colleagues or acquaintances, pretending to be respectable and in control. Pretending to be normal. And I just want him to stop it and be my brother again…But it would end in disaster. Hmm. I always forget that, underneath it all, he's still the same person he was when we were children. He's still exactly the same as me."

"Why does he do it then? Why should he bother with all the suits and responsibility?"

"Oh…" Sherlock huffed, "He's never said, but I've long suspected it was about me. It all began when I started school. He's gathered all this power and wealth and prestige so he's able to protect me. He's always trying to protect me. I wish he wouldn't. Being protected all the time gets so tedious."

"Hm." John smiled, feeling he was beginning to understand.

"Anyway, I really must go run that errand. Get some sleep, John." With that, he leapt up and left in a swirl of coat.

After a moment of contemplation, John got up and walked down the hall to the guest room. As soon as his grateful head hit the pillows, sleep claimed him.

The following morning, finally well rested, John got up and made his way towards Mycroft's living room, following the sound of voices. He opened the door to find Sherlock slouched on the sofa, sipping from a coffee cup, and Mycroft stood by the mantel, fully dressed. Back in his grey three-piece suit, complete with pocket watch, tie pin and cufflinks, and umbrella in hand, he looked as remote, poised and as intimidating as ever.

"Good morning, John. Do help yourself to coffee." He said in silky tones, gesturing with his umbrella to the cafetiere and cups arranged on one of the side tables.

"Thank you." John said as he sat down next to his flatmate.

"I'd like to thank you for helping my brother with my little, ah, _difficulty_ yesterday." Mycroft said, giving John one of his tight smiles.

"Oh, um…think nothing of it. Glad to see you back on your feet."

"Well then, you two feel free to stay as long as you like. My apologies, but I simply must get to the office. There's been a crisis with the Russians. I fear I will be in meetings all morning." Mycroft said, picking up his briefcase and walking towards the door.

"Dull." Sherlock intoned, sipping at his coffee.

Mycroft didn't respond. He quickly left the flat, swinging his umbrella as he went.

"So…" John turned to look at the detective after the front door clicked closed, "Sudden crisis with the Russians?"

"It would seem so." Sherlock replied, innocently taking another sip.

"And your little errand last night?" John bit his lip to hide the smile that was growing on his face.

"Had absolutely nothing to do with a mystery package, the Russian Embassy or a certain oligarch we met the other week, I can assure you."

"Right then." John smirked, reaching out to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Yes…anyway," Sherlock drained his cup and leapt to his feet with a sudden stirring of energy, "I'm sure Mycroft has the nuclear codes hidden around here somewhere. Since he's so foolishly left us alone in his house, want to take a look around?"

John smiled. It was going to be another one of those days.

Notes:  
>I've not written fiction, fan or otherwise, for some years. I'm a little rusty. This started out as a drabble, but then grew into something quite unwieldy. So I'm afraid I'm inflicting it on you good people. All feedback is welcomed.<p>

The cases mentioned that Sherlock and John solved a few weeks prior to this story are taken from The Adventure of the Cardboard Box and, partially, The Adventure of the Resident Patient.

That Mycroft owns giant chess pieces is taken from a joke the actors made during the commentary for Scandal in Bohemia, during a scene set in Mycroft's grand house. Incidentally, the Mycroft of the books resides in lodgings in Pall Mall, so I decided to put him back there for this story, for no particular reason.


End file.
